Blaine, Sincerely Tommy, Bushwick, Brooklyn

There are secrets. Behind his hands, under his hat; he showed me. He sat, slouched into the sunken-ness of a grandpa chair, one leg over the arm, his arm, reaching now and then, until he felt his coffee, become cool enough.

“I like to slow down with my coffee.”

His beanie, his puffy jacket, his high rise pants, all a monochromatic look that, like the sky that day, and he, might have well as been wearing colors like a rainbow, for he lit up that beautiful, that loud.

“I don’t show my face usually in pictures, is that ok.? I like to stay low-key, down low.”

“It’s ok,” I said.

You can find me usually on that stool, if you come again.

I will, even if not on that stool, find him. His beanie, once on its last threads and resurrected by his mother, is like a rainbow in the sky.